Left Unsaid
by colormeferret
Summary: Helga remembers the love story that never was.


Left Unsaid

The room is stifling, not only in temperature but in layout, people packed like hogs to slaughter, and how could there be this many people in your graduating class. You are late, fashionably, you convince yourself, but really it took you that long to get up the nerve to come. A hand on your arm stops you from walking into the gym any further, and surprises of surprises, there is Lila to greet you. "Helga?" She asks, shocked to see you it seems, and after a curt nod she envelops you in a hug. She babbles about how good it is to see you, how many years it has been, wow you look great as you sign in at the desk beside her, pinning your name tag to your breast.

"I know someone who is dying to see you," she eventually says, and then she is leading you through the crowd.

Your gaze trails over the ten-year reunion banner that hangs limply from the ceiling, the cheap streamers twisted around each table and over every chair, the paper tablecloths that are ripped from too much handling. The people mill about almost aimlessly, and you vow to not get sucked into this evening of monotony. It seems an easy enough task, for every person you pass barely gives you a cursory glance before moving out of the way.

You spot his head first, and that is a dead giveaway. An image of you running out the door crosses your mind for a moment, but then you steel your resolve, and Lila calls out his name.

He isn't any different, you realize, as he turns to face you, aside from the couple of extra lines around his eyes. His lights up as he sees you, smile threatening to jump right off face, and then your breath hops right out of you as he embraces you. You finally make some cheap, pathetic comment about the shape of his head, more out of habit than anything else, but it is half-hearted, and he mistakes it for some kind of joke and laughs. "You've changed so much Helga," he whispers.

"I always wondered what happened to you, you know," he adds, almost an afterthought but you recognize the true intention. You wonder what he expects you to say, think, feel. Instead your mind draws into itself like it always did when he was around, letting memories twist and bend until they are the shape you desire, a beautiful falsehood of a life. His gaze burns into you, a lifeline to the drowning to which you've succumbed often before in his presence. And for the first time, you wonder what he would say if he could see this precious fabricated reality in your head.

You want to tell him about the one lie that mattered, that could have changed everything, the one lie you said when you were nine years old, surveying the saved neighborhood. You don't really love me, right? Arnold asks, but the words get clogged in your throat and you can't answer him. The silence makes him uncomfortable, you can tell, but you've already confessed once right? Why bury the truth, why run away, you think, and by now you know he's realized you aren't going to respond.

You love me, he questions, but it's really more of a statement.

You crave to put up your wall again because this boy is about to split you open. The urge is there – you can sense the words on your tongue. You screw your eyes shut, turning from his scrutinizing stare. Helga, he begins, I don't … And you are running, because the end of that sentence may be too hard for you to bear.

Hiding in your house seems like the coward's route, but it at least means you don't see him for three weeks. Even then, it's only a glimpse of a football-shaped shadow through a restaurant window on the day you couldn't take the inside of your room anymore. You are sure he didn't see you, but just in case you leave enough to cover the bill and rush home.

Start of fifth grade, and you try to do everything as normally as possible. You expect everyone to know how you helped him save the neighborhood, but they treat you precisely the same. He kept that secret to himself, you figure, and you are secretly disappointed. Ruling over the grade with an iron fist isn't hard until you catch his eyes one day. He's simply looking at you, just looking, and that is frustrating to no end. Phoebe is starting to worry about you, but he looks at you every day, and you are developing a nervous tic.

You push him against the wall in the corridor one day, and although you've cornered him, he still seems so sure of himself. I'm not a puzzle, you tell him. He nods and you think that is the end of it all until baseball starts in the spring.

He's gotten better. It's distracting, really, and you hope no one notices, but you work harder to overcome it. His palm is sweaty the first time he manages to tag you out, the first instance of anyone getting you out actually, and that ends the game.

I'm surprised I got to you, he says as you're gathering your stuff together. You shrug your shoulders, the only thing you can do really, since his voice took you by surprise. He asks if you're coming with everyone to get ice cream, and the irony makes you laugh. I can't, and it's the truth really. Next time, he asks, eyes glinting in the fading sun. You agree, and hope the subject gets dropped like all subjects involving you usually do.

You're fast, he tells you at the end of the game the following week. You shake your head, because it isn't true. Everyone else is clearly slow, and he laughs, and you marvel at the sound. Coming?

You can't find the reason not to, and so you go with everyone to get ice cream. Despite the odd looks he gets from Gerald, he stays by your side the whole time. You try not to take it to heart.

He insists you and Phoebe sit with them at lunch for the rest of the year, and doesn't take the hint when you occasionally sit at other tables, so you figure it's not a battle you were meant to fight. Gerald doesn't like it, but you figure he must have said something to him, because the subject never comes up. You hug at fifth-grade graduation, and accept his invitation to come over to the Sunset Arms for an after-party. He gives you a specialized tour, and you pretend not to recognize the layout.

We should hang out sometime, he says at the end of the night. Against your better judgment you agree. I'll call you, he says. You're ecstatic.

Two months go by. You figure he's been busy and you hesitated to leave him a message knowing the chaos of his house. Instead you hang with Phoebe, like you always have, and you can't complain really. You don't see him again until a month before school starts. He spies you getting ice cream, and isn't that truly fate? He looks thrilled to see you, and that makes your heart jolt a little. The words come a mile a minute from him, where were you, I left messages with your mom, I haven't seen you around, why didn't you call? You know Miriam and Bob would never have given you any messages, but it's too hard to try to explain that to him now. You promise to make it up to him, and you spend the next month at each other's side every day.

Sixth grade is hard. You are the bottom of the food chain again, like in preschool, and the emotions that brings up hit you harder than you thought it would. Your walls itch to come up again, but you use his friendship as a crutch instead. Gerald seems jealous of all the time you spent together over the summer and you want to gloat, but instead you keep it to yourself. Jealousy, and anger, you can tell, and he's keeping it bottled up, so it's not a surprise when it all explodes one day. The screaming match between the two of you is legendary. He tries to pull you and Gerald apart, but only succeeds once Phoebe drags you down the hall. The last glimpse you see of him is the overwhelming disappointment in his eyes, and you've screwed up.

It would be too easy to admit you're wrong, but your pride prevents you from doing it. You want Gerald to admit it too. Phoebe is your only company and you wonder how long it can last. He isn't talking to anyone, Phoebe tells you one day, and you recognize that it must be tearing him up inside.

Christmas comes and goes, and you forego buying him a present because you still aren't speaking. Gerald must have apologized, but you're not certain because anytime Phoebe tries to talk to you about it, you get upset and she stops. You figure it wouldn't have lasted anyway.

You were Deep Voice, Gerald corners you one day. You're pissed, because he waited until now to let out your secret, and what was the point of that? You try to push past Gerald. I'm sorry, he continues, let's drop this stupid argument so we can all be friends.

You're almost speechless, except you're also seething. Doing one thing right doesn't change everything, you yearn to say, because you've been doing things right for too long for that to be true. He tells you he was jealous. His eyes are searching yours for some kind of answer, but you refuse to give it.

He misses you, he says.

The energy seeps out of you at that, and Gerald seems to sense your surrender. You push half-heartedly past him, but really he's letting you go and you both understand that.

You're sitting on the swings in the park after school that day when you finally see him again. Hi, he says, and sits on the swing next to you. You realize it's been months since he's spoken to you directly, and the sound of his voice breaks down all the walls you have been building. The tears are coming, almost, but it's been years since you've cried and you doubt you remember how.

It's much easier for everyone to be your friend than me. He doesn't answer at first, and in the meantime the wind has picked up. You realize you forgot your jacket at home that day. He stands and pulls you off the swing into a hug.

They aren't you, he says.

You're warm again, but whether it's his words or his closeness you're not sure.

I'll be gone for a couple of weeks, you tell him one day during the summer. It is a writing camp and your first venture away from the looming oppressiveness of your parents. He's happy for you, you think, but you aren't sure. Take care, make sure to call, he tells you and the underlying tone stabs you in the heart.

Camp is nice, but the liberating sensation of freedom takes a backseat to the overwhelming heartache you suffer every moment you are gone. Why did you ever think that this friendship made love easier? Somehow you make it through, living on the scraps of telephone conversations and a mass of poetry dedicated to him.

First day of school, you haven't seen him in a month and you are scanning the crowd. The bell is about to ring, you can tell, and the hallway is filled with students but there is no sign of him. You're going to be late, you hear from behind you, and you are turning, turning, breath catching in your throat as it always has at the sound of his voice. He's taller, taller than you practically, and when did he find time to grow so much? But his eyes are only for you, in that moment, and your fingernails are digging into your palm to keep you grounded.

You've been gone too long, you find, because he's filled your absence with other things. Things that have voluptuous red hair, and a love of the sickly sweet, but you only discover that when you find them passing notes. He wants to date Lila, he tells you, but the bile that rises in your throat catches when he says he needs your help. What would impress a girl, he asks. You yearn to tell him that any girl that needs impressing doesn't deserve him, that you've never been a normal girl anyway, so what would you know, that he has always impressed you, but he is so earnest that none of these answers seem right. Instead you describe the date you always craved to have with him, the movie, the dinner, the things he would say that would make your heart flutter. You leave out one part, the one thing you won't let Lila have, and hope it doesn't come up.

The first date ends in shambles. His sulking deters any kind of conversation, so it takes you a few days to get the full story out of him. You're both lying on the bed in his room when he finally confesses that he couldn't kiss her, that he froze, and you are bursting with joy. Kissing is easy, you tell him, and he's frustrated at your simplicity. He turns to you, rolling over on his side, and he demands to know, suddenly, who and where and when, the details of it all, and grudgingly you begin to describe the few kisses you've had. You neglect to mention the he's already familiar with each of these instances.

You're making those up, he utters as he continues to look at you intently. Prove it.

Your nervous laughter fills the unexpectedly oppressive silence. How? Abruptly he's sitting up on the bed next to you, blush staining his cheeks, but he's looking you in the eyes, and you wonder how it ever came to this point. You consider denying him, leaving, because you don't think you could go down this path and bury it like you have with every other feeling you've had about him. I'll-I'll teach you, you tell him as you sit up. Just part your lips a little, tilt your head, and follow along, you say, and you think this is the most foolhardy thing you have ever done, and then you kiss him.

Your head is swimming, you're dizzy, you're falling, and it is exactly like every other kiss you've shared but better because this time he wants it. And it is awkward at first, just like you expected it to be, he is pressing too hard and not moving his lips, but you coax him into relaxing. His eyes are closed, soft brown lashes lying gently on his cheek, but yours aren't. You yearn to remember this, this image, this moment, because it may never happen again. He's pulling away too soon, you can see his soft lips reddening, and no one will ever be able to take this from you.

You can taste him on your lips for days, even when he starts dating Lila.

I found a map, he tells you one day while you are relaxing in his air-conditioned room to escape the stifling heat of the summer. You don't understand it, but somehow he has convinced his grandparents to go in search of his parents. He found the map ages ago, three years, he is finally leaving, and you wish to be happy for him but you can't. The love he has for his absent parents is something you won't ever understand, not ever in this lifetime, and that makes you go silent. Over the next few days you find yourself taking a backseat to the planning and packing, and every night you go home and barely sleep because a new day means one less day with him. He's looking at you again, like he did in fifth grade, those searching looks threatening to tear you open. The urge to scream at him, to tell him to stop, is overwhelming, but instead you laugh it off. You hope it's not obvious that all your thoughts are focused on him, every single moment of the day, though the two of you are barely talking.

You spend the ride to the airport in silence, too many words sitting on your tongue to bother saying any at all. It's only for a little while, you tell yourself, but it's not enough, and the tears are coming this time, for real. You wipe angrily at your eyes, hoping no one notices, but the sudden touch of his hand on your arm suggests otherwise. I promise to write, he whispers in your ear as you hug goodbye. It is only the second hug you've ever shared as friends. Don't forget me, you utter, because you know you won't ever forget him. He smiles at you, that smile, and then he's leaving, waving goodbye, and there are no words that could convince him to come back.

The letters begin generically, how are you, it's hot here, no leads yet, and really you expected no less. Long-distance anything is a foreign concept to you, and every letter only reminds you exactly how far he is from you. In the weeks between the letters, Gerald and Phoebe have become your only relief from the monotony.

It's hard to think of anything to write when your life doesn't compare to the dead-ends he's chasing half a world away. He regales you with stories of the natives, the animals he's encountered, the views he's experienced from atop a mountain or waterfall. Your letters are cheapened by the fluff you write. Olga is getting married, you say in your reply. You actually like the guy this time, though that doesn't mean much of anything as evidenced by the last guy she brought home. He's finally made it to the village, the last village at which his parents were seen. The people are welcoming, but he hasn't quite deciphered enough of the language to understand what they're saying. You're graduating eighth grade, and you tripped while walking across the stage because the last time you wore high heels you were in fourth grade, and what possessed you to wear them now?

It's been a year now since you've seen him.

He's not coming home yet, he writes in his next letter. He thinks he has a real lead now, he's finally beginning to understand the natives and they're going to take him on an expedition next month, possibly to see the green-eyed people, but the letter is disjointed, rambling. You think you understand why, because his parents would wouldn't have left him for this long if they could. Instead you tell him of Phoebe's acceptance into a private high school, but you are sure Gerald has already written the same thing to him.

Months go by, school starts, high school, and you are alone. Gerald is your only company during the day, but only when he's not busy with baseball or basketball. Phoebe calls but it's not the same, and the ache is acute. You wonder if every teenager experiences this, or if a part of you left with him. Days pass, and weeks and months and seasons with barely a blink, especially without him.

I'm coming home, he writes. It's the first letter you've gotten in months, two years since he left. Right before school starts, he says, and you are counting down the days.

You spot him the second he comes out of the gate, and not only because you can hear Gertie threatening a hostile takeover. He's tall, sinewy and yet at a distance you can see his muscles, muscles damn it, and you are still taking him in as he hugs you. He's finally grown into his head, you think maniacally, and he is whispering about how much he missed you, his breath hot against your ear, goose bumps traveling down your arms. His stubble tickles your cheeks, his wide hands sit flush across the small of your back, and all you can do is breathe in the scent of pine and sweat and man, because that's what he is now. Intense eyes search yours as he pulls back, and you realize you haven't responded, haven't said a hello, but Gerald is pulling him away so it saves you from even making an attempt.

You're both lying on his bed later when he tells you. I found their graves, he says. It was raining, but they wanted to make it home for his birthday, and they didn't intend to wait for the storm to pass. They crashed during take-off. He considers himself responsible, for some reason, and suddenly he is crying, but all you can do is hold him because there are no words that will help.

That is where the arguments begin. He's been gone too long, he didn't see the gradual decline of your relationship with your parents, so he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand that Miriam is a drunkard, that Bob is an overbearing bully, and that Olga is the perfect girl you don't know how to be. He doesn't understand why you have to go home right after school, because you have to make sure Miriam doesn't need a trip to the hospital. He doesn't understand why you don't have breakfast, and often not lunch, or why you never have money. He doesn't understand why you clam up at the barest mention of Bob's name. He doesn't understand why you dread Christmas, because Olga will be home, and though you are ignored now, at least you feel needed, and their faces will light up at the sight of her, driving the stake in your heart deeper and deeper.

Dysfunctional is not something he knows how to handle.

You don't blame him for the arguments. He's frustrated and angry, all he understands is love, so his brow wrinkles further every day. Avoidance of the subject, of him, is the only reprieve, because you would never intend to cause him any kind of misery.

He's having a Christmas party. He gave you an invitation, formally typed and all, but at the bottom a little hand-written note says 'Please' and when have you ever been able to deny him? You decide to get him a Christmas gift, because you haven't been a great friend recently. A scrapbook, you decide. Of his parents, and what could be more fitting? You sneak over to his house when you know he has basketball practice and the conversations you have with Gertie are the first real interactions you've had in awhile. Phil is suspicious, he remembers you sneaking in as a kid, but he lightens up once you tell him your plan. You wish you had someone who loved you like they love him, but wishing never got you anywhere.

You decide to break out the heels again. Maybe it's an occasion for change, for something new, so you let your hair down, literally, and actually make an effort to look nice for the night. You're not impressed, but then again you never have been in regards to your own looks, but maybe he can see past all that, because he has before hasn't he? A skirt too, because you've already decided to go down this path, so why not go all out, and you're on your way out, heels clicking, calves freezing, but the weight of his gift in your hands is all the motivation you need.

He's dating Lila again, you find out at the party, from Gerald no less. You're livid, and devastated, and your heart is breaking once more, and why didn't he tell you. You haven't even seen him yet, you don't know if he's avoiding you, but the crowd seems abruptly stifling, and you need to leave. The gift is too heavy, but you can't get rid of it, can't throw away all your hard work, so you sneak past the horde of people and head towards his room.

He's sitting on his bed, not at all surprising, because you've seen him sit on his bed hundreds of times before, sometimes even with you. But he's sitting on his bed with Lila, with the girl you can never be, and one hand is in her hair, the other caressing her cheek, because there is no other word for it, and they are kissing.

They are kissing, and your walls are closing, because this is the one thing you had always hoped Lila would never have, and though you know they dated before, you never saw them do anything intimate, not like this, so you blocked it out, and hoped and hoped.

He's tearing apart from Lila, staring at you in shock, like he didn't realize you would come, despite the fact that he said please. Your eyes burn, and his lips are bruised, and your head is swimming. His present is falling to floor, and the thump of it hitting shocks you, and you are running.

He calls you five times that night, but you are curled in your bed and you refuse to answer the phone. It's Christmas Eve, and you have never felt more alone.

Olga wakes you with her shrieks of 'baby sister' but you claim illness and are lucky enough to have them all believe you. At this point you don't think you could handle Christmas Day and the gushing over Olga's swollen belly. It is midway through the day before you crawl out of bed and shower, but after that you crawl right back in with a vow to stay there until break is over and you have to head back to school. When you open your eyes once more, it is nearly seven, and there is a football shaped head staring at you from outside your window.

He's sitting on a branch outside your house, and he sees that you've seen him, and he is frantically waving at you to open the window. The shock of it all stops you, and in that moment you debate crawling under the covers again, but it is freezing outside, and you could never leave him to suffer, so you find yourself climbing out of bed and opening the window. He's tripping, stumbling over his own legs as clambers in, but then he is standing there, waiting, and you wonder what he is waiting for, because he came to see you, not the other way around.

I – uh – tried the door, he eventually says, but your dad …

You turn away, because that's all the explanation that's needed, and he cuts off. You tried telling him, months ago, you itch to say, that it was hard, that parents are hard and they don't always like you, or love you, or want you, that sometimes you don't live up to expectations, or sometimes they are happier without you. I'm sorry, he would say, but he can't be sorry, it's not something he can help, so you don't need to hear it. Instead you let the minutes pass, ticking slowly by, and hope he can't hear the blood rushing to fill the void in your heart.

Thanks for the gift, he does say quietly, breaking the silence.

That's what friends are for, you respond icily, and you can almost feel him wince. You turn to him finally, your stare is accusing, cold, and you thought you could do this, but he's not looking away, his stare is just as piercing as yours. He's stepping toward you, heat emanating off his body, hands reaching toward you, holding your hands, and he's keeping you there, still, physically and mentally. Before you know it, you've given up, you're burying your head in his shirt, an unfamiliar wetness prickling in your eyes and you realize you are crying, hot tears streaming down your face, and your body is heaving, but your sobs are silent. He's whispering into your hair, pleading with you to stop, you're my best friend, he says, please don't cry, please don't. You don't understand what's wrong, except everything is, and just once you yearn to be held, yearn to be loved by someone, and if this is that moment, you'll take it. He's stroking your hair, mumbling comforting nothings into the air, and he's sorry for ignoring you, because you were always there for him and he wasn't there for you.

You're running out of steam, you can tell, you can sense exhaustion creeping up on you, despite the fact that you slept all day, and nothing has been resolved, but how does it get fixed now? He's pulling away from you, but his hand still rests on your back, and he is guiding you back to bed, laying you down, tucking you in.

You're the strongest person I know, he murmurs as he kisses your forehead. But I will be there for you when you can't be.

He breaks up with Lila the next day.

New Years Eve, and he is sneaking into your room again, except this time you can barely contain your laughter, because he is clambering up the tree, in a rush, and he looks ridiculous. He's grinning at you, at your laughter, breath coming in short gasps after his exertion. You clear a place on your bed for him and turn on the radio, to a low volume, because anything more would attract Bob and Miriam's attention you think, so you don't risk it. He has a gift for you, your belated Christmas present, he says. You are slow to unwrap it, and you can tell it's eating him up that you are taking so long, but you want to enjoy this. It's a scrapbook, like the one you gave him, but it's of the two of you.

To remind you of all our adventures together, he explains, but the deeper meaning is there. A reminder of love and friendship, and you spend the rest of the night reminiscing over each picture, all the way back to pre-school, and you feel so old, but so young. At midnight, he kisses your cheek, and you can't help but blush at the soft touch, and the memory of the kiss you shared with him comes back with sharp clarity. Your gaze is inexplicably drawn to his mouth, and you can see that his chapped lips are pulled into a gentle smile. You swallow past a lump in your throat. You know, you begin tentatively, the person you're with at midnight is the person you'll be with for the rest of the year. He brushes the tendrils of hair out of your face, and your eyes close of their own accord at the touch, before opening again at the loss. I'm yours for a year then, he says, looking at you, fingers twinning with your own, and you are completely undone, and wonder how long it can last.

I want to be loved, he explains as you lie on the rooftop of his building. It is Valentine's Day, and you are gazing at the stars with the man of your dreams, but it is not a date. He invited you over last minute, and you dropped everything, not that you had anything planned anyway, but the fact that he doesn't and is spending the evening with you is what is most important. You had plenty of valentines, you point out, referring to the pile of romantic mush he has stuffed in his backpack, all of which you would gladly burn if you had the choice. Not that kind, and he's rolling his eyes, you can tell, even in the dark. Real love, blinding love, the kind that takes your breath away and makes your heart stop. You mean to tell him to open his eyes, he has that sitting right here in front of him, isn't it obvious? But the heavy weight of your locket stops you, and instead you tell him how ridiculous the notion of love is.

Ridiculous? And he is sitting up, and turning toward you, so you sit up too, and match his incredulous stare. It doesn't exist, not in the real world, you say. You can sense the resentment creeping into your voice, but you can't stop it, can't help but let your true feelings out. Even if you find someone you love, you continue, the likelihood of them loving you back just as much is simply ridiculous, so you find someone you can tolerate and hope not to be miserable.

He's turning away from you, but the tension in his shoulders tells you all you need to know. You've just never been in love, he utters.

And you have? You retort angrily.

He's blushing, and he won't look at you directly, but the conversation has gone in a direction that only gives you a sinking feeling in your stomach. So who is it? You ask, barely managing to get it out through your gritted teeth. It's not – anyone, really, he says, which earns a snort from you. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, and continues. She – I think I love her. But it won't happen. A sigh escapes his lips as his shoulders slump, and you are listening, enraptured and furious, because how did this life-altering event escape your notice? She doesn't really notice me anyway, he adds with a self-depreciating laugh. You wonder who he is talking about, because whoever the idiot is that couldn't love him deserves really a good punch, but you don't think bringing that up would get him to divulge the name. What about you? He questions with a glance in your direction. You snort again, but rub tiredly at your eyes, hating this conversation with each passing moment. Me? In love? I haven't even dated anyone.

He's looking at you, with that look again, and you haven't seen it in years but you definitely didn't miss being this exposed. Why? He murmurs, gaze searching yours but you scowl in response. Because, and you push at his shoulder playfully, but he grabs your hand and pauses. He's not speaking, only looking but the soft pad of his thumb is caressing your palm in slow strokes, almost subconsciously, because he seems more concentrated on your face. Your heart is pounding, and you wonder if he can sense it because it sure seems like your whole body is shaking. He lets your hand drop into your lap, and you almost whimper at the loss but it gets caught in your throat as his hands reach toward your face, fingertips gliding across your cheeks to rest in your hair. He brushes his nose against yours, an Eskimo kiss you think dazedly, and an awkward laugh escapes in a short breath. He rests his forehead against yours, and you can't breathe, haven't been breathing actually, and you wonder how long your body can go without oxygen before you will pass out, but the thought is fleeting.

You deserve someone special, and then he breathes for a moment, an almost startling noise. You're beautiful, he finally whispers, hands sliding through your hair, and then pulling back just barely, but you are stuck there still, mesmerized by what you see in his stare. They tell you of longing, of desperation, of intent. He wants something, wants it anxiously, and your heart is jumping to conclusions, or perhaps merely jumping, and you are locked in his gaze. And then you see something unfamiliar, lost deep in his ocean-blue eyes – fear. He's afraid, not of you, never of you, but of himself. Laid bare before you, vulnerable, and you know he sees the same in you, and maybe that is why he closes the gap between you, and presses his mouth to yours.

Your gasp is muffled by the pressure of his lips, but that doesn't stop his scent from filling you. His lips are parted just barely, a breath of hesitancy sitting between them, a sharp contradiction to the fingers tightly entwined with yours. His soft, pliable lips move against yours in a slow-moving dance, the slick sounds you make together almost deafening in the silent night, and your body is burning. The faint smack you make as he separates from you echoes through your body with the beating of your heart, but you barely take a breath before you recapture his lips and you feel his own short gasp of pleasure. Between your lips now is expectancy, and without any hesitance he is plunging into your mouth, and you are drowning yet still anchored firmly. Your breath mingles, hot and heavy, between each slide of the tongue, short intakes that keep you going. His fingers are tugging against yours, you are falling onto him as he lies back, and you catch his dilated gaze, gaze black as the night around you, before your lips fall against his own swollen ones, and he is ravaging your mouth again. He bites softly at your lower lip as his hands come to rest at your hips, sliding your shirt up so they can rest on your skin. A whimper of need escapes you.

It is a whining creak that breaks through the haze clouding your mind, and you push off his chest until at least a foot separates the two of you. His grandpa is there, arm holding open the window out of which he is leaning, peering curiously at you, and letting you know it's getting late, and shouldn't you be going home? He's gone as quick as he came, but the moment is gone, and though a quick glance at your best friend shows beautifully bruised lips, you wonder how badly everything is messed up now.

He sits up then, but slumps forward immediately, head in his hands, and you are trembling. Your hand twitches from the need to reach for him, to touch him again, but you refrain. You turn away, yet you can't focus on anything but the feelings surging inside you, and you can't do this, not with him, you can't lose everything. The touch of a hand on your shoulder makes you turn, and he is there, eyes soft, and this is your opening.

Stupid sentimental holiday makes us do crazy things, huh? You smile at him, and close your heart, eyes burning with unshed tears. His hand drops down then, his gaze is unreadable and it makes your heart clench, you imagine a hundred scenarios where this is it, this means the end of your friendship, so you are reaching for him, burying your face in his hair and holding him tight.

It was a mistake, you say. His arms tighten around you and he sighs. Friends? You murmur. His eyelashes tickle you as his head rests against your neck, and then he nods, an answer, and your relief is immeasurable, but so is the acute ache in your heart. Besides, you say, what's this about a girl you're madly in love with? And he jerks away from you, exhaling in a short bark of laughter, a tentative smile gracing both of your faces, but there is wetness on your neck that is unexplainable.

The identity of the mysterious girl eludes you as the weeks pass, mainly because he doesn't date, doesn't show any interest in anyone except you. You don't mind this, in fact you relish the attention, and delight in every girl he turns down, especially savoring their dejected looks as he declines their invitations to Junior Prom. Instead, the two of you spend that night watching black and white movies and eating buckets of ice cream in your pajamas. Rumors run rampant around school – Arnold's in love, Arnold has a secret girlfriend, Arnold is gay. You ignore it and he is the first thing you think of in the morning, the last thing you think of at night, and his eyes are only for you, and in your immense stupidity you foolishly get your hopes up.

Olga has gone into labor, you find out late one night. The next day you visit her for the first time in the hospital, and your parents have brought balloons and blankets and bottles, all adorned with pink and hearts and flowers. Lily is perfect, ten little toes and ten little fingers and a little blonde curl on the top of her head and your parents are gushing, absolutely smitten with her, and Olga, and they aren't with you. Miriam insists on holding Lily first, cooing at her as she makes little gurgling sounds, and Bob is talking of her future, of her being a true Pataki, of her becoming an astronaut or concert pianist or president, just like her mother. And then for some reason Olga insists you take her, and it's only when you're holding your newborn niece that you finally recognize that you can't have him. Your parents will never love you, not like this, and you've known for years, but that means they will never love anyone you bring into the family. And you won't bring him into this, this farce of a family, so you resolve to start dating.

It is your first date, and there he is at your window again, like always, and it hurts to tell him he has to leave, that you are expecting someone. Jealousy flashes across his face for a moment, you think, before it is replaced with good luck and have a good evening, and then he is gone.

The date is a disaster. You decide this the second that Tim shows up at the door, mainly because he has brought you flowers, of all things, and he tells you how beautiful you look although you are dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He takes you to Chez Paris, of course, and the food is impeccable. You talk of things, things of no consequence but which pass the time – sports teams and movies and music and books. He pays the bill and the two of you start the walk toward the movie theater. It's a chilly night, and he offers you his jacket, and the sleeves are long and it smells of oranges. The movie is a romantic comedy, but if anyone asked you what it was about, you would have no idea because instead you are constantly whispering to each other, occasionally making fun of the movie when the conversations stalls. At the end of the night Tim walks you to your door, and you offer his jacket back but he refuses, telling you to keep it.

And his lips are cold as he presses them to yours, dry and coarse. He tilts his head to the left, and you bump noses, and he rests his hands on your waist, but yours stay dangling at your side. It only lasts a second, a quick peck with little meaning and you say goodbye, walk inside, and close the door. And then a couple of days pass, Tim calls, two or three unanswered messages before he gets the hint that you don't want to see him again, and it is over.

You repeat this pattern with all of the boys you date.

You've hurt Arnold somehow, but you don't understand how to fix it, and he is growing distant as the weeks and a multitude of dates pass. You squelch down every second thought you have as you fill out college applications, and convince yourself that it's all for the best.

After Christmas he begins dating, not only Lila but girls, tons of girls, blondes and brunettes, cheerleaders and punks. You dread every story you hear, every girl that leaves with a broken heart, because that is one more who has known something you can't have. His smile is as light as your heart is heavy, and yet you still only catch a glimpse of it passing by in the hallway, because now the distance between you is immeasurable.

In the end you give up. The dates that were keeping you from monotony become fewer and farther between until they stop all together, whether from your own reluctance to actually go out with anyone or the fact that you will only date someone once, no matter how well the date went. And after all that, the only thing you are finally proud of is that Arnold is no longer the only guy you've kissed. But now your heart is bruised and battered and no longer understands anything but desperation.

You keep an eye on him, through it all, because you haven't forgotten his confession. Some relationships go well for him, others end spectacularly, and you can't figure out what he's looking for. More often than not, his dates have the same single night pattern as your own. And then there's Lila.

She has always held a special place in his life. You are aware of this, and that is why your stomach churns when rumors start circulating. They're dating again, they say. They were at the football game last night, holding hands in the bleachers and isn't that sweet? One month, and he took her to see an opera to mark the occasion. They were seen at the drive-in, or more like his car was seen at the drive-in, because the windows were so fogged up that you couldn't see in, if you know what I mean, but you don't really care to consider that. Except Lila must be the one, you think, because she is the only girl he consistently goes back to. And you are watching him all the time, looking for some kind of answer, and then you get it.

Arnold has had sex.

You tried to ignore it, perhaps to make it not true, but in the end it still hits you out of nowhere. Confidence exudes from his pores, his body is thrumming with life and when did you miss this? Your mind races with the possibilities of who, the girl that took that sacred first from him, but it's Lila, you conclude with barely a second thought, always Lila. You can't stop staring at him the day you realize, because now he seems intoxicating, a lethal drug, and he eventually notices, and you sense a certain kind of finality in the cocky, devilish grin that he sends your way.

Go to prom with me, Gerald asks, leaning against the locker next to you as you root through your own. He insists that he means it as you feel your eyes rolling of their own accord. Arnold is taking Phoebe, and you're the only other person I would like to take, he explains. You mutter a sarcastic thanks in response. Besides, he adds, in the end I am going to spend the night with her. Which leaves you with him.

And why would that make a difference? You ask angrily, slamming the locker door. He jumps at the sound, but continues on. Because Arnold really wants to go with you. You begin to walk away, hoping that he will drop this. And you want to go with him, don't deny it.

Then he should have asked me, you retort. A sudden tug at your arm stops you and forces you to turn to him, and in his stare is pity, and anger fills you at that.

Just tell him you want to take Phoebe, and get him to take Lila, you bark at him, and then add, he should be taking Lila anyway.

But his grip is still firm on your arm. He doesn't want Lila, he says, his gaze dark, and you notice offhandedly that his nostrils are flaring. You've been dancing around each other for years, Helga. Grow a pair and tell him you love him already. The urge to hit him is irresistible, but he senses that and gives you one last look before dashing off, leaving you to mull everything over. You're disgusted with yourself, with how obvious you must have been all these years for Gerald to have noticed, but you call after him. All right I'll go, you yell down the hallway, and he glances over his shoulder as you shout this confirmation.

Gerald insists that the four of you get ready together at the boarding house. Picture taking will be easier, and then we won't be late, he says. You reluctantly agree, thinking of the underlying tension between you and Arnold, but on the day of you still find yourself walking to his house with Phoebe, dress clutched in your hand, and laughing with her about all the atrocities that pass as dresses, the jungle prints and flower concoctions that you both tried on just so you could make fun of them.

Gerald is the one ushering you both in, and somehow you find yourself being led up to Arnold's room, and you hear Gerald telling you that you can change there by yourself, and then he leaves and you are alone. You idly wonder where Phoebe disappeared to, but instead set your stuff down and begin pinning up your hair, using a mirror on his door to check your progress. Makeup next, and the last time you spent this much energy on yourself doesn't bear thinking about.

The door opens, surprising you enough to make you jump, which is the only thing that keeps the door from smacking you in the face. And he is there, a look of surprise haunting his face, and you are sure you look the same. You haven't seen him this close in six months, and he is in every way the prince charming you've always desired, dressed dashingly in his tuxedo.

He reaches for you and you bolt, but he is faster, years of sports and jungle adventures catching up to you as you reach the ladder that would have taken you to freedom. Instead your breath exhales suddenly as he slams into you, and you stumble until eventually finding yourself backed against a wall. His hair is standing on end, and anger and confusion mar his face, a swirling concoction of emotions battling for dominance. Why are you running? He demands, the urge to flee overwhelming, ironically, and you try to rush by him, but he catches your wrist as you pass, and pulls you back. The wall is hard against your back, a warm body and wallpaper confinement, and his palms are sweaty where he grabs your wrists to hold you in place. He's looking, searching and you cringe, unable to keep his gaze, and now your shoes are the most interesting thing on the planet, and on your tongue you are aware of the excuses resting, waiting, to be said but instead the truth comes out. I can't face you, you hear yourself mumbling and then you're a glutton for punishment, because you're still talking, uttering more. You mean too much to me, and I can't stand having you ignore me again. I can't.

And he's crushing you, hands squeezing your wrists to the point of pain and you wonder what universe you've stepped into. A grimace crosses your face for an instant, and he jumps away, startled, a frightened look disfiguring his perfect features for a moment as you glance up. The seconds drags on, a seemingly never-ending torture before determination lights in his gaze, and he reaches for you. Helga, he says, a simple utterance of your name but you haven't heard it in so long, and he brushes a misplaced hair out of your eye. He doesn't smile, but his single-minded fixation on you is like the sun after a blizzard, melting the walls you've erected to keep him out. He links his hand with yours as he pulls you over to sit on his bed, and your heart is racing, unwelcome blush tinting your cheeks for the first time in awhile. I've missed you, he says.

You're the only one that matters, you would like to say, and I have to hold onto you, because you keep me afloat. Instead, you find yourself telling him of the nights alone, of the sparse dates, the mediocre guys, because he wouldn't know that would he? It's like a dam bursting, but he hasn't been around, and that's the reason this reunion of sorts is happening anyway. You need him to suffer through the frustration, the crushing weight on your chest as you watch him kiss Lila in the hallways. And through this you watch his face dim, his grip loosening as his pulse races beneath your fingertips.

I'm sorry, he murmurs. When I saw you with those guys, I just – they don't deserve you. And I couldn't be around that.

Yeah well, you respond, no one deserves you either. And you can't help but sarcastically adding, especially red-headed tramps.

Lila? He questions with a laugh. His expression is light, and a carefree exuberance radiates from him now, and for some reason it's contagious, so you are laughing, both of you. When he stops it is only to kiss your hand, and at that your breath catches, laugh dying in your throat. He cradles that hand in both of his, but your hand is tingling so much that you don't feel it, only see it. A wry grin crosses his face at that, thumb stroking your palm in slow circles. I've missed that sense of humor, he declares, but then pauses and you realize there is more than that. And you, he adds softly. You've said that already, you retort, but teasingly, and he smiles.

Why isn't she your date to prom? You ask, and you expect him to clam up at that, for the subject to make him jerk away but his grin stays firm. Lila filled a void, he explains. He's leaning toward you, eyes shining like the moon that's lighting the room, and a hand comes up to caress your cheek. Your eyes close, heart stopping. Left by you, he whispers, and he is close, so close, his breath ghosting your lips. You can almost taste him, your lips crave his touch again, and you've spoiled yourself if you desire this that much.

He senses your reluctance, because a desperate Please escapes his lips as your eyes open. His voice is thick with misery, and the hand on your cheek stills. It's always all or nothing with us isn't it, he questions, gaze searching yours.

I won't ruin our friendship, you tell him. I can't do that to us.

Bullshit, he cries out, jumping up and turning away from you. You're so full of it Helga, how can you say that?

It's easy, you retort with a calmness that belies the desperation in your heart, because as much as you would bask in the moments you would spend together, it would end. We can barely be friends as it is, you continue. He doesn't want to acknowledge it, but you know he has already drawn his own conclusions as to what you mean. We're destructive, we fight all the time and wouldn't last, and the heartache isn't worth it, but really you are the one who is destructive, who would let jealousy and mistrust ruin the relationship. And in the end he deserves his perfect girl, and you can't be that, can't be selfish enough to keep him from that. Friendship, as broken a friendship as there ever was, is the only way to keep him.

You sense the bed dip, and you realize he is sitting next to you once again. His head is hanging low, hair shadowing any view you would have had of his face. Don't close me out, Helga. His breath hitches, words catching on his tongue. You're too good at it.

And you surprise yourself by leaping at him, arms losing around him in a tight hug. You're my best friend, you whisper brokenly into his neck, tears pooling on his skin. You tremble violently in his arms. Through all our fights and arguments, you were the only person who came back to me. I can't – won't lose that.

He presses a soft kiss onto your hair. Why don't you get dressed? He finally says, a soft whisper of a sentence, and then adds, I'll turn around while you change.

You wipe at your eyes, feeling the unshed tears drying up, and grab your dress from where it lays on the floor. Pink and simple, which is perfectly you, and you are quiet as you change, barely sparing a thought to your nonexistent modesty, and then pulling the dress over your head. It falls into place, thin spaghetti straps resting on your shoulders, soft material clinching in at the waist at absolutely the right place. Can you zip it up in the back? You call out, and then wait until he turns around, and he looks almost comically surprised at first glance. You, he starts, and then you feel his stare as he gives you a once-over, quickly, and then again, slowly. It's beautiful, he finally utters, and your heart warms. I brought flats, you tell him, because you can't help but remember all the disastrous moments in high heels, and he laughs because he knows that too.

Walking around you, he reaches toward the zipper, and you feel it slowly close, his finger ghosting up your back, and a shiver runs down your spine. He stands behind you as you examine the dress in his mirror, and it is picturesque. Gerald is lucky to be taking you, he says. You murmur an agreement, but you memorize the way the two of you look right now, you in a beautiful dress and him looking enraptured, and if it doesn't ever happens you will always have this, this one moment.

Gerald pokes his head in, interrupting, and Arnold backs away suddenly, startled by the noise. He steps into the room fully, taking you in, and a smile is taking over his face. You look gorgeous, he says, and reaches out to hug you. His arms are strange around you, a new sensation, and over his shoulder you see Arnold staring at the two of you. Your gazes meet for a moment, and then he is looking away, and you watch him fiddle with his lapel, and then the three of you walk downstairs.

You are determined to stay the whole night, even after Gerald abandons you for Phoebe, as you expected he would. You alternate between dancing with anyone and everyone and sitting at the table laughing with Arnold. Every time you sit next to him you see the question resting on the tip of his tongue, and right before you know that it's going to spill from his lips you avoid it by running to the dance floor. You know the question, and you know the answer would come unwittingly. So instead you let the music fill your head with emptiness, let the night take you away for the first time that you can remember. Finally you collapse next to him, and that's when you realize. Why aren't you dancing?

A slow song comes on. Well then, he says. Dance with me?

You can barely nod an agreement before he is pulling you onto the dance floor, arms encircling you. His hands tickle where they rest against your back, holding you in a tight embrace. The music is deafening, and yet somehow, the mixture of that and the smell of sweat and pine and the feel of his closeness lulls you. Your head rests in the crook of his neck, he is cradling you, and you hear the music yet the two of you sway to your own beat. He begins to talk quietly, a gently hum of noise breaking through the fog clouding your head.

I'm glad I got to dance with you, he says. I waited all night, you know, but you were having such fun. His fingers are beginning to draw abstract circles on your back, and a shiver runs up your spine. Our last night together, he says, and it's true. Perhaps that is why thoughts run unbidden through your head, reliving each moment with him in sharp clarity, every argument and reconciliation, every kiss and near confession, and every unnoticed glance as you worshipped him from afar.

And through all this the words are forming, bubbling in your throat, and you wonder what would happen if you did say them. He can't hear, you convince yourself, you can barely hear your own thoughts and maybe that's why you're considering being this foolish and then your lips are forming words against his neck, I love you.

He jerks away from you with a start. What was that? You've been caught, anything you say will only be an excuse, but you try anyway, try a half-hearted Friends? But his head is shaking in disagreement, and you try to pull apart, but his grip is tight, you see his resolve firming, and so instead you find yourself being yanked from the dance floor and out the door of the gym, into the quiet of the night.

The night is cold, for May, and goose bumps prickle your arms as your feet slap against the pavement. Lights from the gym create eerie shadows, even at this distance, and it is only when the pounding music is a dull whisper in the background that he slows to a stop. His voice shakes with fury and bottled-up emotions when he finally turns to you and speaks. I can't – can't do this Helga. He stops, and then his voice becomes suspiciously thick, filling with a desperation that normally would have had you worried, but now it fills you with an unnamed emotion. I'll won't ever be enough for you. I waited, and waited, and then you dated and I couldn't stand there, couldn't watch them have what I couldn't. And can't you be mine?

Here you should say that you've been his forever, ever since he said he liked your pink bow. But he is continuing, eyes bright in the dark, and he is babbling without pause, his voice a continuous stream of words. Even just for one night? Please. You're beautiful and every time – every time we've gotten close, every time we've kissed, I've ached for and – and wanted you more. And just once, please. Just once could you be mine?

Why would you want me? You ask in a soft mutter, thinking of Miriam and Bob and Olga and your own messed up life, the mistakes you've made, and your inability to be close to anyone, and you're not good enough for him.

Because I – I love you, he murmurs, trembling, and then he waits, his stare drilling into you. Your heart is a dead weight in your chest, useless after years of waiting, and any sort of response has died there along with it.

I want – all of you, he continues when you don't answer, and you see his determination reemerging, the words becoming more and more steady. Every inch of imperfection. All of your bratty attitude and bossy tendencies. Because I'm not perfect – I never will be, but maybe together we will be perfect. And for one night I to experience that.

I can't do that, you stutter out. It seems to surprise the both of you. And you sense him pulling back, closing himself off, and you grab his arm quickly. I can't do anything less than forever. And you grab his head, quite possibly the boldest thing you have ever done, and yank him into a kiss. He stumbles forward as his arms wrap around you, and his gasp is swallowed by your lips. You take advantage of his surprise with a deep plunge of your tongue and with barely a moment of hesitation he matches your demands with his own. His kiss is intoxicating, and the whole world has been thrown off its axis, or maybe just your world. You are ruthlessly plundering his mouth, pressing hard enough to convey every ounce of a lifetime of suppressed longing, and the frustration is pouring out of you, tears mingling with every wet, hot breath you are taking. His trembling hands wipe at the watery trail on your cheeks, and a hoarse cry escapes your throat as you step apart from him. You deserve better than me, you choke out, fear and wonderment coloring your voice, and his face is blurry through your tear-stained vision but you can still make out the answering shake of his head. You reach out to still it, to stop that reply, but when your hand rests on his cheek you feel his tears, his own moist paths that mirror your own. I've haven't ever wanted anyone other than you, he says.

And there it ends.

No matter how many of these deceiving memories pass through your mind, they always end there, always with the same proclamation of love. You've learned to deal with breathing without him, with eating and drinking and sleeping, and then doing it all over again, and for each moment that you do you allow yourself to dream this. But you always stop there because you can't imagine a life with him.

You're tried to picture the ring he would buy, simple but elegant, the wedding, the dress you would wear, the smiles and tears on everyone's faces, the house, the boy and girl you would have, and the journey you would take together in raising them, but you can't. The images come to you in passing, but nothing concrete and in your heart you know there isn't a happy ending.

Your memories are a house of cards, and for every kiss there is an argument, a fight, a Bob, a Miriam to knock it down, and yet these glimpses into this magnificent fantasy are the only thing to keep you going.

He is the only thing that keeps you going.

Arnold.

And you wonder if you've haven't endured and suffered more than you can stand sometimes, if there really is a light at the end of the tunnel to save you from the years of heartache. You imagine, now, taking his hands and apologizing, and he would finally see you, really see you, and then you see the ring.

It sits innocuously on Lila's left hand, a hand clasped tight with his. And you remember why you lied, why you have always lied to him, for years. Because for every fight, argument, Bob, Miriam, there would be his broken heart, shattered and destroyed by your own shortcomings.

"I'm fine, I always have been," and it is the truth, for once. And then you say something about an appointment, or running late, and they are both expressing a generic unhappiness at that, but neither argues, and so you walk away. Your face is twisted in agony, but you don't cry, you never really ever learned how. Each step has a certain finality to it, the only kind of closure you could ever have, and the Arnold you loved is being buried deep in the recesses of your mind. The imagined quirk of his lips seems wrong now, the kisses a slander, and Arnold hasn't ever loved you, hasn't ever yearned to be your friend.

And as you walk away from him you know you are the strongest person he will never know.


End file.
